


A Month in the Country

by Jaybeefoxy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Vera (TV)
Genre: Domesticity, First Times, M/M, Rupert Graves Birthday Collection 2020, You do not have permisioon to translate, You do not have permission to post to another site, cross over with Vera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25722322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Greg is on holiday, having built up a lot of lieu time. Mycroft Holmes is in a similar position. Greg heads north to visit his cousin, also a DCI, and to revisit the glorious county in which he spent summers as a boy.  Mycroft sends a surprising letter. It's not stalking, honest.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 23
Kudos: 91
Collections: Rupert Graves Birthday Collection 2020





	1. Lines of Comminication

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mycroftirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycroftirl/gifts).



> This is for the lovely mycroftirl, winner of my second fic for the Rupert Graves 2020 birthday auction. This is a slight AU, but domesticity was wanted. I hope to oblige soon. Hope you like it, and apologies for the wait. Hope it was worth it.
> 
> In which Vera and Greg are cousins, Mycroft is clueless, and Northumberland is beautiful, regardless.

“He’s going where?”

“Northumberland, sir…”

Anthea noted her employer’s raised eyebrow. “Really? I had him pinned as a Majorca-type,” he said, mildly confused. “He tends to follow such typical male stereotyping as a rule; football, pubs, karaoke, sun, sea, and cheap alcohol… He tans so easily…”

 _What an observation,_ Anthea wondered, _as if that were the man’s sole reason for looking for a holiday destination_. “He does,” she agreed. “However, he has been observed to enjoy a spot of culture.”

That earned her the side-eye. “I never cease to be surprised that the man can still surprise me,” he said. “Just as I think I have his measure, he does something unpredictable.”

 _Admit it,_ she thought, _you love that about him. He doesn’t bore you, just as John Watson doesn’t bore your brother_. “Part of his charm,” she said, offhandedly. That earned her an outright glare. She smiled, inwardly, no hint of it reaching her Dior Rouge lips. “I have all the details of where he’s staying, when he is leaving, and the fact that it is a single booking. He’s going alone.” She watched her employer’s gentle intake of breath. “He’s been given a month’s leave and it looks like he intends to use every minute.” Mycroft hummed noncommittally. “I have taken the liberty of rearranging your schedule to have the entire month of August off work, despite your requesting only two weeks. Parliament is in recess, there are only two conference calls I cannot deal with next week, both of which are scheduled for Tuesday afternoon, and the rest is laughably easy for me to handle. I have made you a hotel booking from the Wednesday, and reserved a moderately sized Audi Q5 from the carpool for you. Love and Langdale are similarly on vacation and you will all take a single week to be on standby, yours is the first, Langdale second, Love third.”

“What about the fourth week?”

“Fourth week, sir?”

“The last time I looked, a calendar month consists of four weeks. Who will take the fourth week?”

“Oh, I will, subject to my contacting the first person who is available should there be anything I cannot deflect long enough for you all to return, and believe me when I say, you will not be my first choice, sir. Love has upped my security clearance to enable me to engage with pretty much anything.”

“Anthea…”

“Sir?”

“When I return...I have already had words with Lady Smallwood, concerning elevating you to become the fourth member of our cabal. Should you wish it, of course, and subject to your training a new assistant for myself…”

“Sir?” She was shocked, and tried not to let it show. Her voice betrayed her though. 

“It is long overdue, as is my retirement. I know none of us are getting any younger. If you agree, then we shall all be able to take a small step back, and none of us will be required to work ourselves into the ground…”

“I would be honoured, sir. Thank you. Now, go take your holiday. There will be plenty of time to discuss it when you get back, but...for now, I agree, in principle.” 

That drew a genuine smile. “Thank you, Anthea. Code name?”

“I favour Lamia,” she said, smiling. “A Queen, and a demon.”

“How fitting,” he said, appreciatively.

**0000000**

The morning dawned fresh and bright, sun shining through the curtains. Greg stretched, yawned mightily and relaxed into his pillows in the sure and certain knowledge that work did not require him for a whole month. A complete month with no early morning call-outs, no late nights unless he wanted them, no missing his bed or his meals or his footie. Tomorrow he would be heading north, a long drive to Bamburgh, Northumberland, to a self-catering cottage, and a long-overdue visit with his cousin, Vera. He had relatives in Northumberland. Distant ones, apart from Vera, but relatives nevertheless. He was looking forward to getting away, leaving the stress behind. If he had one regret, it was that he would be going alone. He missed sharing stuff with someone, with a like-mind, a confident, a friend. Vera was a good friend, if a bit irascible. Like him, she was a DCI, committed to her career. Their shared blood was irrelevant really, they liked each other despite the familial connection. 

The drive up was uneventful, despite brief rain showers that didn’t manage to put the mockers on an otherwise buoyant feeling of anticipation, as though he were a kid again. He recalled family holidays into the wilds of the north, feeling like a foreigner in his own country. The Somerset lad from Weston-super-Mare with his rolling accent and the Geordie lass from Blyth with her double-vowel lilt and her forthright opinions were an odd team, but somehow, shared holidays had meant they hit it off, and when they both went into the police, nobody was very surprised. They had been possessed of a friendly rivalry through their twenties and thirties, he making sergeant before her, she making DI before him. 

The radio blared and Greg sang to the music he knew, and although his voice was rusty from lack of practice, he could still hold a tune. He liked to sing, just never did it much. On his own in the car, driving to his holiday destination, he really felt like singing. 

**0000000**

Mycroft Holmes surprised himself sometimes. He gazed into the mirror critically and a casually dressed man stared back, hair devoid of its product, no suit in sight. He was wearing a short sleeved polo shirt, the colour of which brought out the blue of his eyes, and left his arms bare, showing off freckles and fair ginger hairs. His pale cream chinos bore a neat knife edge crease as a concession to dressing down, and his long feet were encased in comfortable leather loafers… He nodded, pleased, and picked a linen jacket up off the back of a chair. His bags were packed, his car ready downstairs, his house prepared for his absence (his cleaner would call every three days to keep the place free of dust, and to water his collection of plants, and to make sure his mail was removed from the porch). There was no excuse to linger. He was two days later in travelling north than Lestrade, the man would already be there, but it would give him time to settle in, and not look so much like Mycroft was stalking him...

The drive out of London was...interesting. He turned on the radio, listened to Classic FM for a while, and then flicked through the channels, fingers familiar with the controls on the wheel that allowed him to manipulate sat nav, radio, air con and everything else without risking taking his attention off the road or his hands far from the wheel. He listened briefly to popular hits, caught a traffic report as he navigated the M25, switched to Jazz for a time, and then settled back to Classic FM. The M1 took him north, the Audi a pleasure to drive. Other people’s driving wasn’t such a pleasure, but then, there was some element of risk, the unpredictable factor of other people’s lack of driving skill proved to be the unknown quantity that spiced up an otherwise boring trip. Evasive action was taken at least three times in the six hours it took to get there. Mycroft reflected that he might have flown from London to Newcastle, picked up a hire car there, but somehow, taking the car all that way was liberating. The time allowed him to think, and plan. 

**0000000**

Greg got out of the car and inhaled deeply. The warm air was infused with the scents of salt and fresh cut grass, there were skylarks calling overhead, and he felt peace begin to steal through his bones. The cottage was in a small terrace of single-story white-washed stone houses adjacent to a farm, and Greg could hear the soft calls of cows and the bleats of sheep vying with the sound of the wind in the nearby trees. He stood still for a while and soaked it all in, his only regret that he was alone in it all. 

His stomach rumbled, successfully snapping him out of his meditation, and he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He quickly brought up his emails, and finding the booking details from the property owners, he located the code number he had been given to access the keysafe mounted on the wall by the door. Rotating the little dials to the correct numbers was a bit fiddly, but he managed it, and clicked open the front panel to reveal the keys in their box behind with a little spike of triumph. Letting himself in, he found a neat front room with a fairly modern leather sofa and armchair, and a good-sized flat screen tv mounted on the wall. There was a bookcase with board games, a selection of family dvds and an eclectic collection of books. On the coffee table sat a folder overstuffed with information on local attractions. There were take-out leaflets, and adverts for local restaurants, as well as farm shops and breweries. There was also a welcome basket containing a small bottle of locally produced apple juice, a loaf of fresh bread, two apples, a bunch of grapes, and a small box of high-end chocolates. A welcome note wished him a happy stay, and gave the phone number to call if there was anything he needed to ask about. It also told him that there was a pint of milk and a block of butter in the fridge, compliments of Jill and Tony, the owners. 

Greg went to explore the rest of the property. He tested the double bed in the small bedroom and found it comfortable enough, and took a cursory look at what seemed like a newly fitted en suite bathroom, finding a shiny shower with what looked like decent water pressure. His steps sounded loud on the quarry-tiled floor of the well-appointed kitchen, and the back door opened into a small lean-to utility room with a washer and a dryer. Beyond the back door, there was a reasonably-sized garden consisting of a small patio with a barbeque, and a neat lawn. Everything was new-looking, and comfortable, and Greg found himself immensely pleased with his choice. 

He filled the kettle and switched it on, then went to unpack the car. He hadn’t brought a great deal. He had his own dvds, his laptop, phone, and mini speakers. He had enough clothing for a week, along with his waterproof hiking jacket, walking boots, thick wool socks, and gaters. He had a walking pole, his binoculars, his camera. He aimed to take plenty of photos, do a bit of birdwatching, book a boat trip around the Farne Islands, if the weather held, and visit castles and country houses aplenty. He wanted to indulge in his hobbies, things he never got time to indulge in as a rule. He made tea, and sat in the window, gazing across the fields toward the sea, the folder of information open in front of him, chilling out nicely. 

**0000000**

Mycroft Holmes checked into the country house hotel and sighed as he elbowed open the door to the suite he had booked, or rather Anthea had booked. The place was rather quaint, but well appointed. The staff were pleasant. There was an old world charm to it; lots of oak panelling and mullioned windows. His bed was a four poster too, a rather grand thing. He settled himself, wondering what Gregory was doing right at that moment. Not for the first time he wondered if he had miscalculated, if he would be rejected. However, Sherlock had said not. Sherlock, unless he was winding his brother up terribly, seemed certain that Gregory was attracted to Mycroft but would never act upon it, for fear of rejection. Or worse. Somehow he still seemed to fear the power Mycroft emanated, the ability to have him demoted or worse. 

“I asked him to make sure you were alright,” Sherlock had admitted quietly one evening. 

Mycroft’s head had risen sharply, eyes fixing his brother with a gimlet stare. “You did?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What did you say to him?”

“That you are not as strong as you think you are,” Sherlock said softly. 

“I wondered why he was contacting me,” Mycroft admitted. “Asking if there was anything I needed. It was confusing. I barely know the man.”

“You know him well enough,” Sherlock retorted. 

“Perhaps not as well as I should.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Mycroft had regarded him coolly and made to leave. “I think, Brother mine, you are at odds with the situation. DCI Lestrade is not interested in one such as myself. He fears me, fears the power I wield.”

“Don’t be a fool, Mycroft,” Sherlock had said, somewhat gently. “You don't notice the way he looks at you. If you want something, seize the day.”

“That day is long since gone,” Mycroft had said, fully believing it. “Goodnight, Brother dear.”

On the way home, he had received a text from Sherlock. 

**You could simply kidnap him and have him delivered to your club. Dinner for two?**

**_And what would you know about relationships, Sherlock?_ **

**Enough to know that life is too short to procrastinate. If you don’t ask, you don’t get.**

**_Even if you ask, you might still not get._ **

**So if you don’t have him anyway, what have you got to lose, Brother mine?**

Mycroft stared out of the Sun Inn’s dining room window, after his rather acceptable lemon sole, and contemplated desert. It was a pity not to be able to share some. 

**0000000**

The knock on the door that evening was unusual to say the least. Aiden wouldn’t usually call on a weekend, and nobody from work knew where she lived apart from him. Vera Stanhope levered herself out of her chair and made her way to the door, fully expecting to turn away some hopeful double glazing salesman. 

“Hi, Vee. Came early. Hope you don’t mind?”

“Greg!” She exclaimed and grabbed her cousin into a hug. “How are you, pet? Come in, come in…” She let him go and lead the way to the kitchen, clattering the kettle on as she went. “Tea? Or coffee?”

“Tea, Vee, you know me. I reserve coffee for work. Here…” He handed over a bottle. 

“Ee, Pet, you’re spoilin’ me.”

“Not seen you in a while. I thought it was only right.”

Vera admired the amber liquid in the bottle, a good vintage, a very good make, and an even better taste. “Do you want to join me?”

“Nah, not yet. Too early for me. Don’t let me stop you though. How have you been?” He plonked himself into a chair and regarded her with that cheeky expression that hadn’t changed much since his youth. She smiled, charmed by the patented Lestrade grin, even though she knew him better than he knew himself.

“I’m alright, I suppose. Nothing you don't understand about work stress,” she added. 

“True enough, but...you not retired yet?”

“Bugger that,” she said indelicately. “I’m not ready to leave yet. A couple more years maybe.”

“I’m thinking of retiring in a year or so,” Greg admitted. 

“That doesn’t surprise me, but what will you do? Write a book? Buy a farm?”

“I was thinking about moving up here somewhere.”

“Canny lad,” she said. “It’s a bit quieter than you’re used to, but you know that.”

“Too long since I was up here.” 

“Well, you’re here now.” They settled into companionable conversation, picking up where they had left off. Coffee turned into dinner, and the conversation turned to recent cases, the foibles of particular colleagues, reminiscences of their childhood, shared laughter over various eccentric uncles and aunts, how their remaining relatives were (what few were left in South Shields), and plans for after retirement. “I was thinkin’,” Vera said eventually, “when you do retire, you could come up here, share the house a while, if you want to get a feel for the place.”

“Honestly? What a great idea. You’d get sick of me eventually though.”

“Maybes, but I can put up with you for a while, Greg. You could house hunt to your heart's content. Explore the area a bit more.”

“Might hold you to that.”

“Please do.” 

**0000000**

Mycroft went out after dinner, ostensibly to explore the area, to get a feel for it. He had never been so far north, apart from a brief stint in Edinburgh for a while in the 90s. He had to admit it was beautiful country. Rolling hills and heather moor, a rugged coast with castles and fishing villages, bird reserves and sand dunes that were of special ecological interest. He drove almost up to the address Anthea had given him where Gregory was staying but he had no idea how to affect a casual meeting. In truth there wouldn't be anything casual about it. It was too coincidental him being in this neck of the woods. He decided that honesty was the best policy where Greg Lestrade was concerned and Mycroft would not jeopardise anything by lying to the man. 

He pulled over, seeing the driveway in front of the picturesque little terrace, no car in front of the one Gregory was supposed to be lodging in. Suddenly, Mycroft had an idea. He could leave the man a note, pushed through the letterbox; a note explaining his presence, and leaving his contact details. If he heard nothing, well, nothing lost. If he did… he would take it from there. He scrabbled in the glove compartment, not finding anything to write with or on. He sighed, and checked his watch. There was a petrol station about five minutes drive away that might have a shop. Everything else would be shut by now. It was nearing nine in the evening. Mycroft wondered where Gregory was, if he was out to dinner somewhere, or at a pub… 

The garage yielded a pad of paper and some of his favourite biscuits (a bonus) and also petrol (he was quite low after such a drive and pottering around the area for the evening). He sat in the car in a layby near the dunes, and tried to pen an appropriate letter, but no words would come. He stared out at the sea thoughtfully. 

_Dear Gregory,_ he began, then paused. _What should I say?_ Some eleventh hour romantic clap-trap would probably not go down well. _I am in the area, call me? Oh for Heaven’s sake…_

**0000000**

Greg left Vera’s late, after a very nice meal, and an even better catch up. Nothing had changed, he was pleased to note. They got on as well now as they had when they were fourteen. Her offer to let him stay with her if he decided to look for a property up north was enticing. The place was in darkness when he got back, although the outside light snapped on as he drew close, enough to allow him to see well enough to put the key in the lock. He switched lights on and went into the bedroom, drawing curtains and turning down the duvet. As he went back into the living room, he spotted the folded paper on the floor, by the front door. He had missed it on entry. He picked it up, unfolded it, and boggled. 

_Dear Gregory_

_I find this sort of thing quite difficult, but on the advice of my brother (a first) I have made a move which, on the surface of things, may seem reckless, invasive and somewhat out of character. Or perhaps completely in character, if you consider the fact that I have technically invaded your privacy to deliver this missive. However, my brother has recently revealed things to me that I wish to discuss with you, things of a personal nature. As such, Anthea located your destination and address and I followed you, to Northumberland, to hopefully meet with you and talk earnestly about the future, free of the fetters of work and the demands on my time and yours. You see, Gregory, there is someone in my life that I admire and fear I may lose all contact with unless I am clear in my desires and declare my intent honestly. This man is honest, honourable, and possessed of integrity and sincerity. I can therefore offer no less in return. Sherlock asked you to take care of me, and you have done your utmost to do so, given that I have been less than accommodating after Sherinford. I find I am lonely, and Sherlock is repeatedly pointing out that life is too short. I do not want to regret missed opportunities._

_I am therefore offering you a choice. My number is at the bottom of this page. I will abide by your wishes. Either contact me, via phone or text, and we can meet, or not, as you wish. I will not be surprised if your answer is no, considering the liberty I have taken to find you. However, should you wish to be left alone, I shall do so. You will hear no more from me. Simply do not reply to this message. I shall return to London. You won’t hear from me again. However, in the slim chance that you take pity on my clumsy efforts to make meaningful contact, I will be at the Sun Inn, Warkworth, until Sunday. Unless I hear from you before then, of course._

_Yours_

_Mycroft Holmes_

_Well, that's a turn up._ Greg didn’t know for a moment whether to be angry at the invasion of privacy, disappointed that he had missed the man, or affronted that this was happening at all. _What had Sherlock said?_ Greg rolled his eyes. _Typical bloody Holmeses._ He went to bed, determined not to give in too easily. He needed to think. 

**0000000**

Friday. Mycroft rose and showered, dressed and went down for breakfast. He sat for a pleasant hour, nodding to fellow guests, and feeling somewhat anticipatory. In his heart of hearts he was convinced that Gregory Lestrade would not call. Sherlock was wrong. Mycroft figured that following the man up here had been a little excessive, however they were both on holiday, with time on their hands to think, and talk, if Greg deigned to contact him. He sat despondently in the dining room, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. There was a bookshop in Alnwick he really wanted to visit, and he had a yen to see Bamburgh Castle in all its glory. Possibly Lindisfarne. He had heard the bird watching was very good. 

His phone buzzed. He ignored it. It was most likely Sherlock… When it buzzed again, he glanced at it, and this time, shock fizzed through him. Gregory…

**Hi, Mycroft. Got your note.**

**Unconventional way to make contact, but I’ve got used to it from you Holmeses. Dinner? My place? 8pm tonight? You know where it is.**

**__** _Oh, my…._


	2. Only One Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and discussion.

_What on earth to wear?_ Mycroft studied his wardrobe critically. He had considerably dressed down, only bringing with him one of his ‘London’ suits—his most intimidating dark pinstripe, with red tie and pocket square—in case of emergency conference calls. Instead he had polo shirts, chinos, his favourite summer linen suit—which served for more tropical climates—and his rarely-worn jeans. He had packed two collarless linen ‘tunic-style’ shirts as well, open necked, loosely woven and cool to wear. The summer heat was forecast for the next few days, and Mycroft did not respond well to heat. He burned in direct sun, his freckles showing up dreadfully, and he hated the feeling of sweat-damp clothing. He had also packed his Panama hat, and his sunglasses. _So...what would Gregory not expect me to be wearing?_

 _Bloody Hell…_ The man who stood on Greg’s doorstep did not resemble the Mycroft Holmes he thought he knew. This creature was an entirely different animal. The man pausing hesitantly beyond the glass was dressed in a cream linen jacket, sky-blue collarless linen tunic, and jeans, those long elegant feet encased in Italian leather loafers. A Panama hat was perched jauntily on his head, and he had obviously just removed the sunglasses from his nose. The genuine smile was a tad nervous, but sincere nonetheless. 

Greg stepped back and tried not to let his surprise show. “Mycroft, welcome. Come on in,” he said, holding the door wide. “I’ve done a green Thai curry, I hope that’s okay.”

“Thank you, Gregory. It’s a pleasure to be here, and green Thai sounds lovely.” Mycroft held out a bottle. “Not knowing what you were cooking though, I’m afraid my choice won’t pair very well…”

Greg grinned. “Who cares?” he said, accepting the bottle and examining the label. “It’s alcoholic. Can’t be terrible, whatever it is. Thank you.”

“I also brought desert. The hotel I’m staying in, it has a rather good restaurant attached. They do a rather indulgent salted caramel fudge cake, which I am reliably informed is no good unless shared, so here we are.” He handed over the box, which Greg took into the kitchen. 

“Wondered if you fancied to sit outside?” Greg enquired. “The weather’s gorgeous, and there’s a breeze…”

“Acceptable,” Mycroft agreed, following him into the cosy kitchen. The door was open, a fringe of bamboo beads hanging in the gap swinging gently in the breeze, warding off interloping flies. He poked his head past it and smiled at the unruly garden, an overgrown stone wall bordering the far end, above which a screen of trees could be seen in the distance. “This is...pretty,” he said, stepping out. Greg joined him, proffering a large wine glass more than half-full. The pungent smell of the excellent cabernet reached his nose and he inhaled appreciatively. “Ah, that is more than acceptable. Thank you.”

“So…” Greg stood next to him, and raised his glass. “Holidays,” he said. “May they bring relaxation, revelation, and rejuvenation.” 

“The three Rs,” Mycroft intoned, clinking their glasses together and taking a sip in toast. “Gregory...I fear I must apologise…”

“Stop right there,” Greg said, fixing him with a look. “Before you start to verbally prostrate yourself before my altar...there’s no need.”

“I beg to differ,” Mycroft insisted, his rebellious brain imagining prostrating himself before the veritable Adonis that was Gregory Lestrade. “In anyone else, my actions could be misconstrued as stalking, at the very least an invasion of your hard-earned privacy.”

Greg chuckled. “Yeah, but you’re a Holmes.”

“A reason perhaps, but not an excuse.”

“Look, Mycroft...I’m used to your brother, I’ve been around him a long time. I know how he thinks, and you’re surprisingly not much different. I understand. Tracking me down like this, making a declaration of intent this way...What else could I expect, for God’s sake? This is typical for you both. I’m not angry. Puzzled maybe, but not angry.” 

“Puzzled? Why on earth are you puzzled?”

Greg frowned. “Because...why me, Mycroft?”

“Gregory, my brother recently urged me to seize the day, and that from his observations, I would not be... _misguided_ in pursuing a relationship with you. He told me you obviously had an interest in me, but would never act upon it. Was he right?” Greg was silent for a time. 

“I’ve carried a torch for you for a long time.” He looked straight at Mycroft then, his dark eyes troubled. “I’ve never said anything because…”

“You fear me.”

“No, not...not exactly.” He ran a distracted hand through his short silver hair, staring into the distance. “Look, Mycroft, if I feared people like you, I’d never be able to do my job. It’s not _you_ I’m scared of…”

“So what are you scared of? You do not strike me as a man who is scared of anything, Gregory.”

“Not true, but...okay, it’s not you, it’s...it’s everybody around you. You’re posh, I’m not. You know how to move in the circles you move in, it’s second nature to you. You speak the same language; Etonian, Harrovian, public school, Oxbridge… but I’m working class. East End boy, me. The school of hard knocks. Never went to college, never mind university. I joined the police with five O Levels, and worked my way up. Did it the hard way. I’m not as comfortable with the kind of power you wield. God knows what your cronies would think of me...”

“Firstly, Gregory, I do _not_ , under _any_ circumstances, have _cronies_.” The word exited Mycroft's mouth loaded with disdain. “I would never surround myself with anyone who considered themselves as such. Second, the _power_ that I wield is a tool, nothing more, much like your powers of arrest and detention.” Greg snorted. Mycroft’s eyebrow rose eloquently. 

“Oh, come on, Mycroft, how the Hell is my job anything like yours?”

“Perhaps more than you realise. My influence is extensive, I cannot deny, but I am still hidebound by the laws of the Land. I work for Queen and Country. You follow rules, and so do I.” Greg simply looked at him. “Diplomacy is an art,” Mycroft explained. “Negotiation a skill that anyone may learn. Omnipotence, however, is _my_ specialism, and mine alone. Anyone can come to me for advice, and I draw all the facts together and predict the likely outcomes, given a specific set of parameters.”

“You’re an adjuster,” Greg said. “An underwriter?”

Mycroft smiled. “Somewhat. Perhaps more accurately I am a clearing house, a central exchange. I would never advise any course of action that undermined National Security or the Economy of the British Isles. However, the person they perceive me to be remains no more than a façade, a means to an end. The corridors of power are little different to the corridors of law enforcement. In fact Law Enforcement is likely more honest in their dealings. You have no reason to feel intimidated by them...or me, for that matter. Besides, does it occur to you that I might want someone who is not fooled by that world? Someone who understands the demands of a stressful occupation where nine tenths of the people you meet would rather not listen to what you say, and of the other tenth, two feel superior, two are habitual liars, two do not believe a word you say and the rest are sycophantic hermit crabs with the IQ of a peanut.” Greg burst out laughing, a loud bark of mirth, startling in its sincerity. “One alone might take in my suggestions, if I am lucky. I wonder sometimes why I do it, but my results speak for themselves. I am good at it.” 

“Me too,” Greg agreed. He raised his glass and took a hefty swig of the contents. “That is bloody good,” he observed. “Time for dinner?”

They sat and ate at a wooden table, under a large green patio umbrella Greg dug out from the broom cupboard in the kitchen. There were fairy lights strung beneath it, and a tea light flickered in a blue Morocan lantern on the table. In the growing dusk, the lights looked hazy, ethereal. The curry was very tasty, the jasmine rice fluffy and fragrant. The air smelled of salt. Mycroft knew he was lost, watching Greg across the table. His eyes, large and dark as a deer’s, regarded his guest with warmth and humour. He spoke animatedly about anecdotes from his work, and more than once made Mycroft laugh with his observations. Similarly, Mycroft found he was able to make Greg laugh too, which surprised him. He wasn’t in the habit of making anyone laugh. Polite mirth was expected at dinner parties, but not this unalloyed joy that Gregory found in Mycroft’s recounting of the many mishaps he had been witness to at diplomatic receptions. 

They retired inside as the air grew chilly, Greg setting the desert to warm in the oven and putting the kettle on for coffee. He extinguished the lights, handing the bundle of wires and bulbs to Mycroft while he wrestled with the umbrella. “Lord...look at that,” Mycroft gestured. Greg spun in time to see a white shape detach itself from the trees and glide soundlessly above the field, to disappear into the woodland like a ghost.

“Wow,” Greg said. “Barn Owl. Thought I heard them calling last night.”

“Tyto Alba,” Mycroft said, giving the bird its latin name. “I haven’t seen one since Musgrave....” Greg smiled at the wonder in Mycroft’s voice. 

“How old were you?”

“Eleven, I think. Sherlock was four, Eurus was two, still a baby. I was...a clumsy child, but I enjoyed birding. I could legitimately stay quiet for hours in the hide my father built for me on the edge of the property. It was camouflaged with foliage from the bushes, and Sherlock always got annoyed because he couldn’t find me. I remember skylarks, robins, field fares, kestrels, and on one memorable occasion, a red kite. I saw the barn owls of course, if I stayed out till dusk.”

“Happier memories?” 

Mycroft smiled a little tightly. “Quite.” 

They sat at the dining table and shared the fudge cake, with some cream Greg had secreted in the fridge. Although Mycroft wouldn’t accept much cream, he allowed a little, and Greg let his wrist ‘slip’ in the pouring. Greg found another half-bottle of wine in the fridge and they worked their way through that too, while Greg selected a playlist on his phone. The strains of Dave Brubeck’s Quartet filled the room.

“I hadn’t pinned you as a Jazz man, Gregory.” 

“Love Jazz, but I’m picky about what I like.”

“Discerning, Gregory. Not _picky._ There is nothing wrong in being discerning.” The smile he received was gratifying. 

_We are simply so comfortable with each other,_ Mycroft thought, hazily. He had no idea what time it was. The wine fizzed in his blood. Gregory was talking about something, his expression animated. 

“Mycroft…” Mycroft took a moment to realise he was being addressed.

“What?”

“It’s late, and we’ve had a fair bit to drink…”

“I suppose I should go…”

“Might not be safe. Northumbrian police are shit hot on people being over the limit. I wouldn’t want you to get pulled over. Look...would you stay?”

“Stay?” The invitation gave Mycroft pause. He would like nothing better than to tumble into Gregory’s bed… but was it the right thing to do? 

“Yes. Look...I know we’ve discussed everything but us tonight. We’ve skirted the issue really.”

“Perhaps, but I have had a wonderful time tonight. Thank you.”

“You have?”

“Yes, I have. You have been...far more accommodating than I expected, Gregory. Perhaps more than I deserve. If there is no _us_ , Gregory, I shall still be content,” Mycroft admitted. “Not happy perhaps, but content.”

“Is there, though?”

“Is there what?”

“An _us_? Could there be, do you think? Would you like there to be?”

“What of you, Gregory? Do you wish there to be an _us_?”

Several emotions chased across Greg’s face, settling on hope. He nodded. “I told you, I have been carrying a torch for you for years. You’re a good looking man, Holmes. Lean, tall, blue eyes...nice arse...” Greg grinned, showing teeth. “You tick all my boxes.”

“But are you comfortable with my _power_?” Mycroft asked. “Could you learn to be comfortable? Because I have to say this, Gregory. If we do this, then I declare that I will want to show you off, to parade you in front of everyone who has ever doubted me, everyone who has ever given me cause to think I would never find one such as yourself for my very own. Because...Because _they_ are the ones who should be intimidated by _you_ , Gregory, and not the other way around. Every dirty secret they harbour, every transgression—and believe me, there are a fair few of those behind closed doors—it is they who should be scared, Gregory, not you.”

“Yeah, well… I’d rather not be the big scary DCI, Myc. Just as long as you think I won’t disgrace you…”

“Disgrace me? Never,” Mycroft said, aware that the wine might have gone a little more to his head than he had first thought. “You are...incompara...incompra…without equal. You are devastatingly handsome, distinguished, superlative, unmatched…”

“And I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink, Myc.” He found himself being guided to the bedroom.

“Oh,” he said at the threshold. “There’s only one bed.”

“I know. Didn’t think I’d be needing more. There’s a perfectly serviceable couch. You get yourself to bed. I’ll bring you some water and I want you to drink it, alright?”

“Alright,” Mycroft agreed obediently. He stepped inside. Greg appeared with a pint glass of water, which he pressed into Mycroft’s hands.

“Drink.”

“I didn’t bring my things…”

“Not a problem. I’ve got a spare toothbrush somewhere, and I’ve got plenty of towels. Just sleep naked, it’s no problem.”

“I...very well.” Greg gathered up a spare blanket and nicked a pillow. 

“Goodnight, Mycroft,” he said softly. He quickly pressed a light kiss to Mycroft’s face, right by his ear. “Drink your water,” he insisted. Then he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him. 


	3. Afternoon Outing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This thing has sprouted legs... The boys want time to get to know each other.

Mycroft surfaced slowly, awareness washing over him that this was not his hotel room. It was a little difficult to mistake this divan bed for the hotel's four poster. He rolled onto his back. He was surprised to note that he did not seem to have a hangover, despite an excess of wine the evening before. Putting that down to the glass of water that Gregory had made him drink, he sat up slowly, just in case. The room stayed still, despite a slight throbbing at his temples. It was then that he noticed the mug of freshly ground coffee, still hot, and the glass of water, as well as the packet of paracetamol placed strategically by the bedside lamp. His lips tugged up in a smile.

Of his clothes there was no sign. Although his shoes were under the cane chair beside the door, and a fresh pair of boxers had been placed on the chair. There was also a dressing gown on the bed. 

Mycroft wrapped himself in the dressing gown, inhaling what was obviously Greg's scent in the fabric. He took a moment to savour it, cuddling himself into the soft material. He grasped the cup and took a sip, finding the coffee made exactly how he liked it. A thoughtful smile creased his lips.

He found Greg in the garden, sitting in a deck chair in the sun. He was wearing sand-coloured cargo shorts and a loose undyed linen shirt. The summer colours suited him, highlighting the tanned limbs. Greg was a man who browned easily under the sun. He also had his own mug in hand, and Mycroft's Panama perched on his head. His feet were bare, and Mycroft had a hard time drawing his gaze away from the man's toes. 

"Morning, Sunshine," Greg said, grinning. "How are you this morning?"

"Is it still morning?"

Greg checked his watch. "Only just," he said.

Mycroft frowned slightly. "I never normally sleep so late." 

"Yeah, well, you probably needed it. How d'you feel?"

"Tolerably well, all things considered. I suppose I have you to thank for that."

Greg smiled. "Well, you hadn't drunk _that_ much, but still, doesn't hurt to stay hydrated."

"Indeed. I see you borrowed my hat," Mycroft said, tipping it slightly over Greg's eyes. The man straightened it with a chuckle.

"I leant you my dressing gown," he argued. "Fair exchange is no robbery, after all."

"It suits you," Mycroft observed. 

"May have to get one. I didn't bring a hat and this sun's really hot."

"There's a rather good gents' outfitter in Alnwick. Perhaps we could visit?"

"Oo, Alnwick. I want to go to that bookshop in the old railway sheds..."

"Barter Books?"

"Yeah, that's the one. I've heard it's great."

"Also on my list of destinations," Mycroft said, with a smile. "Thank you for the coffee, by the way." 

"That's your second. The first one went cold."

"You should have woken me."

"Nah, what for? You needed your sleep. If you're anything like your brother, I bet you don't get much. Besides, we're on holiday. What's the rush?"

Mycroft took a seat at the table. "I should drive back to my hotel today. I have no clothes with me."

"I stuck yours in the wash earlier. There were a few little spots of wine on your shirt. Should be dry by now. There's an iron somewhere in the kitchen, ironing board is in the utility room, by the washing machine. I left you a clean pair of boxers."

"I noticed, thank you."

"If you want to stay til tomorrow, we could drive back together…"

"Together?"

"Yeah, we could go via Alnwick. It's not far to Warkworth from there…"

"Gregory...are you proposing we…?"

"Cancel your booking, and come stay here, with me," Greg suggested in a rush. "Or don't cancel it, just come here for a few days, keep me company, see how things go?" 

"Gregory...if I do as you ask, then you cannot remain on the couch."

"It's fine, really. I was quite comfy…"

Mycroft sighed, directing a look at Greg like a teacher with a particularly recalcitrant pupil. "I am suggesting we share the bed, Gregory," he said. "We are both adults, entering into what I expect will become a close relationship, which means, at some stage, sex will be involved…" He paused, because Greg had managed to spit his coffee across the grass. Mycroft thumped him helpfully between the shoulderblades as he coughed.

"Jesus, Myc, warn me next time," he spluttered, laughing.

"Warn you about what? I was merely stating the truth."

Greg sighed. "Typical Holmes…" he muttered. "I should have expected you to tell it like it is."

"I did not have you pinned as asexual, Gregory, so sex _will_ be on the cards at some point. It is simply the next logical step…"

"Well, you got that right."

"I did? 

"Oh yes, Asexual I am not." Mycroft had to work to maintain his neutral expression, because the look in Greg's eyes was almost predatory. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and then drained his coffee. "Breakfast?" he suggested, getting to his feet and hoping his tone sounded light. 

"Sounds good. Although…" Greg stood as well, facing Mycroft and effectively blocking his way to the door. "Would you prefer to jump in the car, provided your togs are dry, and go find some lunch? There's a great pub in Bamburgh, and we could go to the castle after?" Mycroft relaxed, but tried not to let it show. "I'd love to show you the area," Greg said. "The dunes are spectacular."

If Mycroft thought he was hiding anything from Greg, _he is sadly mistaken,_ Greg thought, although he was certain that the man would have refused to stay, and rejected the idea of moving in with Greg if he'd been really worried about sex. There was something though, Greg had noticed the tells. _Whatever_ , he considered, _I'll find out, and address it_. He wanted Mycroft to trust him, and the only way that would happen would be through his actions. Mycroft would find out he could be trusted, he just hoped it didn't take too long.

The Castle Inn still did good food and good beer, Greg was pleased to see. Mycroft settled into a window seat and perused the menu while Greg went to the bar for their drinks. 

"So, Mycroft," he said, settling into the seat opposite, "where exactly are we?"

Mycroft blinked. "I am aware we are in Bamburgh…?"

"Don't be daft, Mycroft, I mean where we're concerned, you and me. Don't deflect."

"I wasn't aware I was deflecting."

Greg sighed. "Look, I want there to be an 'us', but we can't plunge headlong, we're too old for that. We need to talk about what we expect, how we want to present to the world, where we wanna be in a few years…"

"Retired," Mycroft said, "and not lonely. In simple terms, Gregory, I am looking for companionship, understanding, a like mind, someone to share my days with...and if it becomes an affair of the heart, well…que cera cera." He shrugged. For a moment, Greg looked at him in utter silence. "Do you want the same?" Mycroft asked.

"I guess, yes, I do. I want someone who understands the stress, but I want someone who can talk, who won't bottle it up. I need someone who can listen, and who isn't afraid of talking, of being honest. Ultimately I want someone to care about me, but I need someone who'll let me care for them too. I want someone to put me first, and I want to put them first in return. Mutual respect, care, and yes, love. I want all of that."

"I suspect you are an easy person to love…"

"Don't be under any illusions, mate. My ex wouldn't agree with you."

"Your ex-wife didn't understand what she had in you. She allowed superficiality to colour her judgement, not to mention insecurity, fear of losing her looks, fear of aging…"

"Wow...I mean...you're right...but...I tried, really hard, to convince her she was number one, but it never seemed to work. I complimented her on her looks, on her weight, on her outfits, but she just never seemed to believe me. Just kept on with those bloody diets, which cost a fortune. Christ, she didn't need them, Mycroft. She was slim, pretty…"

"Sometimes, we do not believe those closest to us, and sometimes...sometimes we take their words to heart, however damaging. I believe neither of you was blameless, but neither of you was wrong either. You were simply not meant to be. Which, I have to say, her loss is my gain."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, true enough. I just don't want to stuff this up," he admitted. "You don't need to diet either. You're bloody perfect, Mycroft." Mycroft could not help the treacherous blush that flushed his neck and climbed rebelliously to his cheeks.

"So, are we on the same page?"

"I believe we are, yes," Mycroft agreed. "Getting there, at any rate. I want to attempt to give you what you need, Greg. However neither of us is a mindreader. We need to make sure we talk to each other and keep talking...but otherwise, yes, I believe we are on the same page."

"Good. I'm famished. I'm ordering a burger." 

After their lunch, Greg walked Mycroft through the village. They crossed onto the green, a leafy triangle between the roads, dark and shadowy beneath the spreading boughs. He pointed out the church, and over all, the castle on its hill dominating the view. 

"I must have seen it so many times on film," Mycroft admitted, "but I have never seen it up close."

"Best we take the car up there, it's quite a walk," Greg suggested. 

They took the rest of the afternoon to ramble around the huge edifice that was still a privately owned home. The collections obviously interested Mycroft and he found himself forever drawing attention to things on display, conversing with the room guides, referring to the guidebook, and sharing observations with his companion. 

Greg spent his time observing Mycroft as they made their way around the castle; his interest, his thoughtful discourse with the guides, his appreciation for the place. Greg couldn't keep the happy grin off his face. He couldn't have anticipated how well this might go. He had been prepared for a holiday on his own. Instead, he had someone to share it all with. 

After the castle, Greg drove them a little way back into the village and took the car down a back lane to the beach. They found themselves on the vast flat sands of a beach that Mycroft was curiously familiar with. The view was an iconic one, used in countless documentaries and movies, but he had never experienced the reality of it; flat sands, a dramatic skyline, the huge grey castle on its rocky promontory, the sea and the sky and the wind in his face, the sound of the gulls in his ears.

“I half expect to see Viking warriors storming the coastline,” he mused. 

“Your brother would probably tell you that you’re romanticising the cold hard facts, Mycroft.”

“Then it’s a good job that he isn’t here.” 

This part of the beach was occupied by fewer holiday makers, and the two men strolled a way out towards the sea. Greg took photos, while Mycroft indulged in a little beach combing.

"You ever been mudlarking?" Greg asked.

"Alas, no. I have never had the time."

"I go when I can. It's amazing what you can find. Expensive though. Over eighty quid for a yearly license for the Thames foreshore. Still, it's fun."

"Have you found anything of value?"

"Now that, Holmes," Greg said with a grin, "all depends upon what you consider to be valuable. Monetarily, not really, but historically, plenty. I found dozens of medieval pins, pot sherds, buttons…"

"What's your favourite piece?"

"That's easy," Greg said. "Picked up a couple of pilgrim badges, one’s 15th Century, and some bits of roman pottery, the red stuff."

"Samian ware?"

"That's the stuff," Greg agreed. "Nearly two thousand years old. Amazing. Got one sizeable piece moulded with scrolling vines and dancing figures. I've got some clay pipes as well, lots of bits of Victorian pots, some 18th century wig curlers. Didn’t know what they were until I took ‘em to the Museum of London. There's all sorts. Lost passports wash up. There’s too much plastic, though, more’s the pity.”

“The scourge of the 21st Century, I expect.” Mycroft enjoyed watching Greg talk about his hobby. He was obviously passionate about it, and Mycroft loved seeing that in him.

“I guess,” he agreed. “It’s the ordinary things, though, you know? I’ve got kid’s glass marbles, an ATS badge from the Second World War, rusted keys, and there’s hundreds of nails from all the shipbuilding.”

“It sounds very interesting.”

“Well, I think so. Wouldn’t want to drone on about it though. I can bore the pants off people.”

Mycroft smiled. “You can bore the pants off me any time,” he offered. 

“Literally or figuratively?” Greg asked cheekily. 

“Both,” Mycroft said, giving him a distinctly coy look. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Greg replied. He shivered slightly. “It’s getting a bit chilly. Shall we head back?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft agreed. “You could warm me up at home.” 

“I could, could I? And how would you propose I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Gregory. You are an intelligent man, not to mention creative. I’m sure you’ll be able to think of a way.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure I could,” Greg agreed, stepping closer, liking this new slightly more confident version of Mycroft. “Any ideas of your own, though?”

The two men looked at each other for a short time. Greg tried to give him a winning seductive grin, to which Mycroft smiled, knowingly. 

“What about a nice hot Cocoa?” he suggested. 


End file.
